Chaos
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: Sometimes, I understand why he hates me. BartimaeusxNathaniel.


**Disclaimer:** Blah blah blah no.

**Author's**** Note:** *insert something witty here*

**Warnings:** BartimaeusxNathaniel. References "Bart's Journal." Not in chronological order. Probably OOC and stuff, 'cause it's been years since I last read the original trilogy. General fail. Spoilers for "Ptolemy's Gate."

**Dedication:** For Askee. You owe me a sequel to "Inexperience" now, haha~

**XXX**

**Chaos**

**XXX**

**I. Tuesday**

His voice is small and slight, suggestive of his stature; I can scarcely hear him speak over the rustle of fallen foliage, the bone-brittle _snap_ of dried twigs. He can hardly hear _himself_, I'm sure, and so assumes that I'd stayed silent because I'd missed his inquiry. Just once, he repeats his whispered question— mumbles it again as smoldering gardenias tumble about his sneakered feet, collecting like ash, dust, and other dead things.

He needn't have bothered. I am not human; I heard him the first time.

Scattered rose petals lie in velvet piles of scarlet blood.

**II. Wednesday**

We are one in the Other Place, a collection of daydreams, desire, and fantasy. We whirl as light, we dance as air, we blaze as fire… and within the heart of our life-flame, our ties to the past swim and swirl like colored coils of opalescent smoke, twining and twisting and twirling together like ribbons of ester and astral.

We are one in the Other Place. But _we_ will never be One again.

Within my core, I can feel my memories shifting, spilling—like water, they flow from my essence and pervade my home, rippling through my brothers and sisters. And they, in turn, share their experiences with me, and we drown in each other.

I evaporate; he is no longer exclusively mine.

**III. Thursday**

My master likes his little world orderly and neat. Every pen in its pot and every djinn in his pentacle, that sort of thing— tidy. Prissy. Precise.

But I am made of wind and fire; my world is a kaleidoscope, and my spirit reflects its abstract nature. As its child, I bring a fragment of the Other Place with me wherever I go, and use its intensity, insanity, and influence to make myself feel slightly more at home whenever stuck within this wrenched realm. If foolish mortals and stupid magicians get caught in the crossfire of these attempts at self-comfort, well… it's only polite to share, as they say.

And share I do. For while John becomes rather adapt at stemming my fun on the surface, he can never quite quash the tiny spark of Chaos that I lit within his bony chest— the minute flame that quivers and burns in the depths of his heart, glowing the same befuddled red as his pointed, furious face.

John Mandrake likes his little world orderly and neat. It is not surprising, then, that my young master hates me.

**IV. Friday**

"I thought I… _hah_… told you— _nn_… no changing sh-shape when you're ins—! _Hgn…!_"

"Do you know _nothing_ of biology, Natty-boy? That part's _supposed_ to swell. Honestly, what're they teaching you kids, these days…?"

"N-not to… _that_ size it's n— _nnn_…!"

"C'mon now, being on earth for as long as I have does horrible things to my essence. Changing shape helps the pain. And I was _hurting_ there."

"You k-now qu… quite well that… _that_ pain is c-curable in a… a different wa— _ah!_"

"Oh, like _this_, you mean?"

"_Nnn—!_"

"Well, if nothing else, watching you squirm makes me feel _loads_ better… _Nathaniel._"

"_Bartimae...!_"

**V. Saturday**

Sometimes, when I am least expecting it, I have a Feeling.

I know the Feeling. I've felt it before. I never particularly wanted to feel it again.

But sometimes, I can't help it. Because sometimes, he will smile. Sometimes, he will laugh. Sometimes, when we are verbally sparring—or physically fighting— or the faintest glimmer of his true self peaks through the mask of his government persona… sometimes, when those things happen, I look at him and my chest feels as if it has gone back home, leaving my body and mind behind.

And sometimes, I understand why he hates me.

**VI. Sunday**

His screams are delicious, ragged and raw— choked sounds half-muffled by coagulated mouthfuls of saliva, swallowed back like sobs and snarls of fury. Manicured nails rake up and down the fading wallpaper, the crown of his sweat-soaked head pressed flush against a garden of painted flowers; he refuses to look at me, even as he bucks and keens and wordlessly begs.

I like him best like this. The way I have to fight to crawl into his bed, forging through his frantically flailing limbs: fists and feet that beat against my torso like a butterfly drumming mindlessly against a concrete door. The way he spits and swears, cusses and curses (his husky hisses full of withering contempt so palpable it's _poisonous_), as his legs spread wide and wanton and his slender arms bind me in an embrace far stronger than any magic spell. The way that he howls— yowling as if still trapped in the nightmare that first woke him— as I pound into him so hard that I wonder if I might split him clean in two.

As if he wasn't two already. And, in his duality, I am not sure if we are one or two or three in this moment… but said moment is over so quickly, it hardly matters anyway.

This is the only sort of comfort that Nathaniel will allow, and I wouldn't care to offer him any other kind.

**VII. Monday**

It is a lonely feeling, being one.

No, not One. _One_. Alone after closeness, my own entity after sharing. And even as my brothers and sisters surround me, even as I am pulled into the comforting embrace of my home, there lurks an emptiness within me that no amount of intermingling can fill. The holes in my essence will heal with time, but there are other holes that _ache_— holes that had been weakly patched to start with, now frayed past the point of no return.

No return.

The flame of Chaos that fuels my life-force is quavering, trembling— like a candle caught in a breeze. It flutters, it shudders… but it does not go out. It will never go out.

I won't let it go out.

**I. Tuesday**

His voice is small and slight, suggestive of his stature; I can scarcely hear him speak over the rustle of fallen foliage, the bone-brittle _snap_ of dried twigs. He can hardly hear _himself_, I'm sure, and so assumes that I'd stayed silent because I'd missed his inquiry. Just once, he repeats his whispered question— mumbles it again as smoldering gardenias tumble about his sneakered feet, collecting like ash, dust, and other dead things.

He needn't have bothered. I am not human; I heard him the first time.

"You wear the guise of that sculpture in the park. The one of that magician from a-hundred years ago. Did you know him?"

In response, I look down at my hands—Nathaniel's hands—curled around a rusting pair of clippers. I glance at my reflection—Nathaniel's reflection—, confined within a pane of window glass. I touch the flesh above my chest— Nathaniel's chest— and feel the Chaos burning there, thrum-thrumming, thrum-thrumming, in a parody of life.

And finally, I murmur:

"Nah. I just liked that statue's outfit."

**X**

I don't think I shall write about this.

**XXX**


End file.
